


saudade

by orphan_account



Series: The saudade series [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. He is twelve years old when he is first sent to Brazil.</p><p>EDIT: HIATUS. I'M SORRY. I'M SO STUCK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the halcyon days are long gone

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING FOR MASSIVE ANGST. Some biographical research is mixed into this, but obviously I have taken quite a few creative liberties. I do not own either of these very fine gentlemen; they are with Real Madrid and belong to themselves. unbetaed.

He is twelve years old when he is first sent to Brazil.

His coach from Andorinha, where his pai was kit-man; and his current coach from Nacional, had met with him to discuss his future.

They tell him that although he is still very young, that he possesses an unnatural talent that surpasses those of most boys his age.

That he has the potential to become an extraordinary futebolista like Luis Figo, a Portuguese legend.

They tell him that Sporting Lisbon is very interested in him, but since his family cannot help him, he needs financial support from a legal guardian.

He is then told it has already been arranged that he is to meet a man named José Mourinho, who has kindly agreed to support him after observing him and being extremely impressed by his playing.

His coaches assure him that after he flies to São Paulo, Brazil with Mr. Mourinho on a business trip, Mr. Mourinho will then use his influence and myriad of connections to get him into Sporting.

He is actually afraid to go to Brazil with a complete stranger, but he understands how important this man will be to his career as a futebolista, his dream.

\----------

Cristiano is home, the day before he leaves to go to the airport.

It’s always been entirely too small for his family, but he would be lying through his teeth if he said he was never happy in this cramped tin shack.

There were a few carefree moments with his parents and brother and sisters lurking around somewhere, hidden underneath all the sorrow.

There’s an old photograph of Elma on the table, in a sorry excuse of a wooden picture frame that is rotting away.

It’s been there for as long as Cristiano remembers.

In it, Elma is grinning and looking at the camera with clear eyes.

The photo is worn down and fading, but that doesn’t diminish how beautiful Cristiano thinks she was

Still is.

Elma died when he was very little, hit by a careless driver.

He was far too young at the time to understand why she wouldn’t wake up.

As an even younger child, Cristiano was so convinced she would wake up that he recalls sneaking into the hospital room, holding onto her hand because that’s exactly what Elma used to do for him when he was scared of being by himself in the dark.

She never woke up.

And that was weird because whenever Cristiano used to wake up; Elma would be smiling softly at him and kiss him on the forehead and tell him not to be afraid.

That everything was going to be okay because he wasn’t alone anymore.

Cristiano never got to return the favor.

He supposes her death was when things went downhill for the family.

They didn’t have much, even before, but they were happy, and he used to believe that was enough.

It really wasn’t.

After Elma died, things became much, much worse.

Now: his pai is an alcoholic, his brother Hugo is addicted to drugs, his other sister Cátia doesn’t talk to anyone anymore, and his mãe is slowly dying of cancer.

The house is empty, save for his pai who is sleeping on the ratty, battered, old couch.

For once, it looks like he isn’t being tormented by his inner demons.

The broken man on the broken couch is peaceful.

But Cristiano stops himself from feeling too much hope because he still sees empty bottles littering the side of the wall.

Quietly, Cristiano starts collecting them to put in the trash.

Outside, Cristiano catches sight of a discarded futebol, and tries not to remember how his pai used to take his hands and lift him over his shoulders, playing pick-up games with him if Cristiano simply asked.

He doesn’t even know where Hugo is.

These days, Cristiano is lucky just to see a glimpse of his big brother at all.

But whenever Hugo comes back, he looks just as haunted as their pai.

His eyes are glossy and he behaves like he doesn’t give a damn about whether he lives or dies.

Cristiano wishes Hugo did care: if not for his own sake, then for Cristiano’s.

Cátia comes home more frequently than Hugo does, although she barely acknowledges anyone’s presence.

She’s more or less of a ghost, passing through the doors, barely alive.

It’s her eyes that stand out.

Her expressions don’t give anything away, but the fragile intensity that lingers in her gaze shows Cristiano she’s still in there, somewhere.

His mãe shortly became sick after everyone else spiraled out of control.

She’s in a hospital right now, confined to her bed like a fading songbird in a cage.

Cristiano visits her whenever he can make time.

He goes to the hospital to tell her the news of his departure because well, she’s the only one who is there to listen to him.

Cristiano picks up some varied wildflowers from the ground to give to her, on his way there.

“I’m so proud of you, Cristiano, my baby boy. I love you so much,” she breathes out, then, “Your dream will finally come true.”

And she’s crying and smiling and Cristiano is struck by how much she will always mean to him.

His mãe’s hands are feebly cradling the flowers that he brought to her chest, when she falls asleep for the night.

The nurses usher him out of the building. He returns home.

Cristiano sleeps and dreams of his family at the beach.

The sky is a blinding orange.

Elma is alive helping him build a sandcastle while Hugo and Cátia are splashing each other relentlessly.

His pai and mãe are looking fondly at all of them, before they announce that it’s time to go and the sun disappears behind the horizon. Cristiano wakes up with a bittersweet taste on the tip of his tongue.

The blinding sun momentarily snaps him out of his thoughts and Cristiano makes his last minute preparations.

Cristiano lightly kisses his still slumbering pai on the forehead and harshly wills down the suffocating grief that threatens to spill out from him.

His pai keeps looking closer and closer to death, but what can Cristiano do?

Nothing.

He can’t do anything yet to help his pai, or his (remaining) older siblings and his mãe; but maybe after Cristiano takes the trip with Mr. Mourinho to Brazil, he can do something to help them.

They will never be the same, but maybe, just maybe, Cristiano can make everything as close as he can to okay again.

He has to try.

\----------

The first thing Cristiano realizes at the airport is the fact that he feels so awkward and out of place amidst the endless crowds of people.

He is still only a kid.

He is skinny and slender, fast on his feet.

Cristiano belatedly wonders if he will look ridiculous to Mr. Mourinho.

He is gangly with curls and crooked teeth, struggling with his baggage.

He can’t help but feel a sudden spike of shame stabbing at his chest.

Cristiano somehow manages to weave through the masses of bodies, and numbly registers a sense of relief when his eyes spot the airport’s fountain.

He cautiously rolls his stuff over to the fountain, and then makes a complete stop.

He fists his hands into the pockets of his shorts, salvaging a crumpled piece of paper.

Yep. This is where he is to meet Mr. Mourinho.

To both his complete relief and dismay, he doesn’t have to wait very long.

Almost automatically, Cristiano knows that the stoic-looking man with the piercing eyes who is walking briskly towards him is José Mourinho.

The man mumbles a brief greeting in Portuguese, gives him a firm handshake and a wry smile that is more like a grimace, and then grabs Cristiano’s luggage from the handle.

Mourinho strolls to their destination, Cristiano trailing closely behind.

Not quite casually, Mourinho informs Cristiano that he was observing Nacional during a game from the stands, and immediately saw Cristiano’s talent.

They make a sharp turn left.

That his eyes were drawn, right away, to this tall, elegant kid playing up front.

They narrowly miss bumping into a woman wheeling around a noisy stroller.

That he had turned to his assistant asking who the player was, if he was the son of Van Basten,

“That player was you, Cristiano Ronaldo.”

José Mourinho tells him as they walk, those sharp eyes softening into a kindly gaze.

Even though Mourinho seemed like someone who wouldn’t speak a lot, they basically clicked, the pair animatedly discussing futebol all the way toward the plane.

Mourinho and Cristiano are ushered into first class, which Cristiano is really impressed by; his first time on a plane.

Mourinho informs Cristiano a bit about his business trip to São Paulo and soon after, they lapse into a comfortable silence.

Before Cristiano is lulled to sleep by the muted conversations of the passengers around them, he gazes down at his feet: well-worn, dirty sneakers and at Mr. Mourinho’s shiny Italian leather dress shoes; noticing the stark contrast, but feeling content at finally finding a kindred spirit to tell his dreams to, like how he used to tell his pai.


	2. in which marcelo calls cristiano a girl

They arrive at São Paulo, or more specifically, its futebol club. 

It is a nice, sunny place; not as pretty as Funchal, he thinks proudly to himself, but it’ll do for now. 

As Mourinho and Cristiano walk closer and closer to the pitch, the coach finally catches sight of them and gives a friendly nod to Mourinho. 

The two adults start conversing, lost in their own little world, and head straight into the nearest building. 

Cristiano is left outside with the boys of the São Paulo youth squad. 

What the hell is he supposed to do now? 

Without Mourinho, Cristiano feels far too self-conscious to be comfortable in his own skin, now aware of multiple pairs of curious eyes staring right at him. 

He looks hopefully towards the building, mentally urging Mourinho to come out soon. 

After a good few minutes, Cristiano dejectedly plops down onto a nearby bench. 

The boys on the field, by now, have resumed training, and it looks like they’re playing a practice game. 

Cristiano notices that most of the boys are bigger than he is, although he is pretty confident he could give them a run for their money. 

Two of the boys really catch his attention, though. 

The smaller, darker one has even more outrageously curly hair than Cristiano’s, as well as even more crooked teeth. 

The boy nimbly darts across the green expanse of the football pitch, grinning mischievously and dancing as the other boys laugh at his antics. 

The taller Brazilian is the one that Cristiano can’t tear his eyes away from. 

He is fair, handsome, and bigger than Cristiano; most likely older than him by a few years. 

Cristiano is spellbound by this tall boy: amazed at how fluidly he moves, fascinated by the sheer accuracy and beautiful precision of his shots. 

Later, after scoring what must be his second or third consecutive goal, the handsome boy wipes a stray lock of dark brown hair away from his face while grinning at his frenzied companions on the football pitch. 

Cristiano can’t help but flinch when the tall Brazilian suddenly meets his eyes, beaming with an impossibly joyful smile that Cristiano easily imagines could split the handsome face in half. 

Without warning, he feels excessively hot and his face is flushed as he nervously looks back down at the ground. 

The strange thing he then notices is the distinct lack of noise coming from the pitch, and Cristiano looks up to see the tall boy confidently striding towards him, face aglow. 

“Hey there, amigo. You look lonely, sitting there by yourself,” he matter-of-factedly states, coming closer and closer to Cristiano with each step. 

“Anyway, it looks like they’re gonna take a while, but you know how adults are. But this time, they can be forgiven because they’re talking about futebol.” The boy rubs his head, sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Want to play with us?” 

Cristiano is petrified, his tongue an unbearably heavy weight in his mouth. 

He is used to being the kid everyone wants to play with back in Madeira, but this place is completely different. 

Cristiano doesn’t know anyone here. 

He has never felt so insecure in his life; he can’t exactly fathom why he wants to make a good impression on the tall, friendly, Brazilian boy. 

Cristiano bites his lip when he notices he has failed to get a single word out, and mentally prays that the boy will get called back by his friends before Cristiano makes an even bigger fool of himself. 

But no, the boy’s expression is still a bright beacon of light. 

The taller boy crouches down on the dewy grass and gazes into Cristiano’s eyes, a reassuring hand placed on each of Cristiano’s knees. 

He has a laid-back drawl, which Cristiano thinks, suits him well. 

“It’s okay, don’t be scared. Wait, I should have probably introduced myself first, right? Sorry.” He gives Cristiano a shy, but guilty grin. “I’m Ricardo Ivecson Dos Santos Leite, but you can call me Kaká or Ricky, though I prefer Kaká.” 

Cristiano, involuntarily, is so disarmed by Kaká’s infectious smile that he almost does not hear what comes next.

“And what’s your name?” 

“…Cristiano.” the young Portuguese manages to say without realizing, stunned, much to the unadulterated joy of the boy, Kaká. 

“That’s a good name! …So wanna play with us, Cristiano?” 

“OK.” 

Before Cristiano has a chance to take back what he’s said, Kaká swiftly stands back up and grabs Cristiano’s hand, dragging him back in a secure but gentle grip towards the curious rabble of São Paulo boys. 

Cristiano wants to tell Kaká that he is not a little baby that needs to be doted upon, but Kaká is too busy introducing Cristiano to everyone. 

The smaller Brazilian from earlier, Marcelo, soon joins the rest of the group. 

“Hey Ricky! Who’s your pretty new girlfriend?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively while failing miserably to stifle a giggle. 

Kaká immediately colors into a pure crimson and begins to stutter uncontrollably. 

By the time Mourinho and the São Paulo coach return, Cristiano and Ricky’s team are wreaking unbridled havoc on Marcelo’s team, _payback for calling him a girl_ , Cristiano’s mind helpfully supplies. 

The three boys end up sprawled into a gleeful tangle of limbs.


	3. in which josé mourinho is a very busy man, but nods approvingly at kaká

José Mourinho is a very busy man, and Cristiano soon learns this when he is left alone in a swanky, spacious hotel room for a few days. 

_José_ (because Cristiano has been given permission to call him that) leaves short notes, usually near the nightstands, telling Cristiano to order whatever he wants from room service. 

Cristiano decides against it, opting to leave the hotel with his fingers sticky and sweet from the bowl of pineapple slices on the table. 

He sucks gingerly on the fruit; the overwhelmingly sour aftertaste kicking in, and Cristiano can’t help himself and pulls a ridiculous face. 

He straight out sprints to the park where Kaká and Marcelo have told him to go to, not even caring when Kaká mildly reproaches him for running so hard. 

Marcelo looks at him in wonder and calls Cristiano a “crazy bastard.” 

_The pot calling the kettle black_ , he thinks defiantly, just to be a little difficult. 

At first, he didn’t think Marcelo would like him. 

Marcelo, though in jest, pretty much called Cristiano a _girl_ when he first talked to him, after all. 

From what Cristiano initially saw at the São Paulo training grounds, Marcelo and Kaká were very close friends. 

When Kaká started drifting toward him, he could swear Marcelo was glaring daggers at him. 

But then they managed to form a thing akin to a grudging love/hate relationship, mostly founded on childish pranks and mutual respect. 

It was only a few days ago when Cristiano and Marcelo finally made their truce, laying side-by-side, covered in dirt. 

When Kaká found them, they were snickering together and kicking a football back and forth. 

The older boy only gave the impish pair a weary, but fond look.  

Cristiano shortly learns that Marcelo is younger than him by two years; was born in Rio de Janeiro; and really plays for Fluminese, but is only in São Paulo for a very short bout of training. 

Cristiano also learns that Marcelo is wild and outrageous, a self-proclaimed expert samba dancer, and comes from a very poor family just like Cristiano’s. 

Cristiano contemplates asking Marcelo if his family also has their washing machine on the roof because there is no space inside, but ultimately decides it might be an insensitive question. 

Asking Marcelo if his family members are also slowly dying from depression and terminal illnesses is additionally out of the question. 

But Marcelo knows almost exactly what it’s like for him, and they quietly tell each other about their families to pass the time. 

They’re swinging on creaky swings, on a cloudy day when Kaká is away. 

And Kaká is probably the kindest person Cristiano has ever met. 

He is like an older brother to Cristiano; what he imagines Hugo could have been like, but Cristiano doesn’t give it any more thought because it’s too painful. 

It simply wouldn’t be fair to the brokenhearted brother Cristiano still loves. 

Anyhow, Kaká was born in Brasilia, but moved to São Paulo. 

He is currently fifteen, and also likes to play tennis, in addition to football. 

He does very well in school, judging from what the other boys say about him. 

Ricky is also kind of shy, but he becomes a lot more outgoing when with friends. 

Cristiano’s favorite thing about Kaká is the way his eyes seem to cheerfully scrunch together whenever he smiles. 

His eyebrows are also just so expressive, and Cristiano thinks that they add to his charm. 

Ricky has a younger brother, who sometimes comes to the park to play with them, though rarely. 

His name is Rodrigo, but he is affectionately referred to as Digão. 

Cristiano is only a few months older than Digão, who is almost as smiley as Ricky. 

Having Kaká as an older brother probably has that effect on someone, Cristiano likes to believe.  

But what amazes Cristiano the most is how Kaká is so gentle and caring, and doesn’t even make fun of Cristiano when he messes up, like how some of the other older boys back in Madeira did. 

He kindly hauls Cristiano off the grass, and simply tells him how he can perfect a trick, earnestly peering at Cristiano. 

Kaká’s eyes twinkle whenever he is happy, and when he smiles that infectious grin, Cristiano can’t help but feel absolutely content with the world. 

It’s funny; Cristiano thinks a little guiltily, how easily he can forget about his family when he’s playing his beloved futebol. 

But he also knows that no one back home would want him feeling sad when he’s met José and made such wonderful friends like Ricky and Marcelo. 

Cristiano and Marcelo play long after the sun disappears, when the moon burns white-hot against the night sky. 

\----------

Cristiano and Marcelo find themselves alone again, on a mildly cloudy day. 

“Where’s Kaká?” 

Cristiano’s already so attached to him. 

“He and the others from the youth squad left to go play a match,” Marcelo informs Cristiano, frowning as their ball is haplessly rolling away. 

“Something about a game against Juvenil? Man, I can’t wait to go back to Fluminese and start playing matches!” 

Marcelo looks so determined; his face scrunched up by a feral grin, that Cristiano is momentarily reminded of Kaká’s vibrant smile. 

He is failing miserably at keeping a grin off his face. 

“Hey, what are you laughing at, pretty boy?” The corners of Marcelo’s lips quirk upward mirthfully as he lightheartedly punches Cristiano’s shoulder, before sudden dread forced them back down. 

“Awww…fuck, it’s raining!” 

The rain relentlessly beats down in a matter of seconds; the two boys taking refuge beneath the nearby playground. 

The ground is cruelly assaulted by the endless swarm of raindrops and is a solid mess of wet mud and grass beneath their feet. 

A string of curses run from Marcelo when he notices that their ball is indistinguishable from the layers of mud plastered to it. 

The boys huddle together in quiet; the sounds of the rain deafening amidst the silence of the now deserted park. 

Still, Cristiano feels the happiest he has ever felt in, well…awhile. 

“You know,” shyly begins Cristiano, “I’m glad I met the two of you.” 

Marcelo takes in Cristiano’s rain-drenched outline, and the mysterious, but bittersweet little smile gracing his new friend’s lips. 

“Don’t get sappy on me now, princess.” 

He’s joking, but his expression softens. 

“But for what it’s worth, me too.”

When Kaká finally comes back from the game, it stops raining. 

Cristiano isn’t really surprised because the rain gods of Brazil must really like Kaká.

That’s what he rationalizes, anyway.

Also, Marcelo is a complete _jerk_ for laughing at that.

As soon as Kaká spots his two younger friends still drenched to the bone, he quickly ushers them inside, and wraps them both in some spare towels.

Cristiano and Marcelo listen intently as the older boy tells them of the team’s victory, though the São Paulo youth squad was also caught in the rain.

Kaká is still scolding them a bit, though.

Or, okay, more than _a bit_.

“We’re not as wet as you guys, and you should have ran to the closest building, and what if you two catch pneumonia-”

‘ _Such a mother-hen_ ,’ Cristiano thinks amusedly.

Marcelo and Cristiano just giggle at Kaká, who has given up and is now slumped beside them on the benches 

They all sit there companionably until Cristiano sneezes, sending Ricky into another bout of hysterics for Cristiano’s wellbeing 

\---------- 

Marcelo is gone a few days after their little romp in the rain. 

Cristiano really misses his crazy little friend, but is also really glad for Marcelo, who couldn’t wait to be playing again for Fluminese. 

The newfound silence of the football pitch isn’t any less disconcerting, though, regardless of how happy Cristiano thinks Marcelo is back home. 

The São Paulo boys are a dejected bunch; they considered Marcelo a part of the team, after all. 

Presently, Cristiano notes, most of them are sighing glumly as they do their stretches. 

Although Cristiano isn’t sure if what they’re doing should be classified as “stretches.”

One boy hasn’t moved for a good ten minutes.

After practice ends, Kaká joins Cristiano on the grass.

He turns to ruffle Cristiano’s curls, as Cristiano blinks back an almost tear.

Marcelo would have called Cristiano a big baby if he could see him now.

_God_ , Cristiano misses Marcelo.

“We all miss him, Cristiano,” Ricky says, pretty much reading Cristiano’s mind.

_Creepy_.

“But don’t worry; we’ll definitely be seeing him again.”

Coaxing a shy grin from Cristiano, Kaká is spurred on.

“Does little Marcelinho seem like someone who’d let you forget him that easily?”

“No,” Cristiano utters, happily conceding, for once in his life.

 Kaká kindly takes Cristiano’s hand and walks him back to the hotel, staying with him until José opens the door.

It looks like the older boy is turning around to go, but before he does; he gives Cristiano a quick, but affectionate hug.

José doesn’t say anything, but he does nod approvingly at Kaká, as he takes his leave.


End file.
